The Elf who Swallowed a Firecracker
by kellani celina
Summary: As Irina was talented in fabric arts, Zym is talented in weaving stories. Born in a rural camp, he travels to the capitol and accumulates the ideas that strict elvish socity typically lacks.
1. Chapter 1

Under a grand hemlock, the storyteller began his tale. Clustered around him, a circle of children stared in rapt attention. They reacted as one at the whim of the teller. He had selected epics of ancient wars, of heroic kings, and of impossible journeys. Essentially the same tales we had heard a hundred times over. In the back corner I stifled a yawn, scandalizing the young girl beside me. She gave me a death glare before becoming transfixed in the story again. I made a note to never ask for her hand.

I was nearing the age where I should begin actively seeking a woman. At sixteen, I was strong enough to hunt for my share, I could easily feed another. However, the girls in my village were conventional in their ways, narrow minded even. In a word, they were boring. Our camp was far removed from the others and we rarely had visitors, so finding a foreign wife would be difficult. The real hurdle was that I was uninterested in finding a wife in the first place, I wanted to do something unique.

The storyteller continued to drone, and I began sketching rudimentary figures in the dirt at my feet, images to go with his words. I was hardly an artist, but with my subconscious occupied, I could better pretend to be focusing. Why had my mother assigned me this task? I was nearly a grown man, I should be able to pass my free hours how I wanted. I understood her premise; the tale smith was a visitor from the King's Camp. He deserved an audience, but I didn't want to be in it. Elves were supposed to thrive on jokes and tricks, but our literature pompous and repetitive. This man recited it better than our own storyteller, a man who doubled as a shoemaker and also a tutor for the very young children. However the subject material still wasn't interesting.

The girl beside me poked my arm and gestured to the front, I assumed she was chiding me for my inattention. I followed her gesture and saw dancing pictograms swirling around the storyteller. They were mirrors to my drawings. The storyteller noticed the shift in his audience's attention and matched eyes with me. Without missing a beat, he modified the ending and finished the story quickly, concisely, and sans the flowery language. He pulled the hood on his brown cloak over his face, dismissed the other children, and crooked his finger at me.

I walked to him, mostly disinterested in what he had to say. "Did you make those pictures?" He asked. "I've never presented among art before, it was an interesting experience. It made quite the show."

"I don't know sir." I bowed politely.

He chucked roughly, hearing the sound coming from a noble-born elf was disconcerting. "Do you think I learn my stories without having eyes too? I saw you sketching in the dirt. Did you find my stories boring?"

His black eyed stare bored into me, making me believe that honesty would be the best policy here. "Sir, with all respect, I've heard similar tales from our village teacher. I was hoping that the King's storyteller would have spectacular stories."

"Spectacular you say? It is a pity you've never seen performances in the King's Camp. These tales take on an entire new light. The King has taken a fancy to something called acting; the King's Wife had liked it when she still lived with her people. It's very popular."

"I haven't heard of it."

"I wouldn't be surprised; you're very isolated out here in the Shot Arrow Camp." We were on the farthest border of the forest, it was true, but I wasn't interested in new ways of retelling the same stories. I wanted new ideas. I told him as such. He raised his hand to his chin and stroked it, miming the way humans would pull their beards. "I do have need for an apprentice."

I wasn't sure that I wanted that. The storyteller had already proven himself as quotidian in nature. "Perhaps," he added, "you have a strange creative magic. The elf King has testers that could pin down why you are looking for fantastical elements in stories. At the very least, I could train you the basics in becoming a bard before you go off on your own journey. Although I think that taking you to the King's Camp is enough of an incentive."

"Are you suggesting that I travel with you?"

"You would stay with me as long as you are willing. I would imagine that we would part company and you would quest for ideas around the world. You may even leave the forest in your travels for knowledge."

He had me hooked. "You think this would work?"

The storyteller stared at me. "You're a pretty boy with that black hair and those icy eyes. I can imagine that you'd be immensely popular at court if your fairy tales caught on. In the meantime, go tell your mother that you're being apprenticed. We'll leave this place at dawn."


	2. Chapter 2

My mother was far from thrilled when I interrupted her weavings to ask permission to leave camp. The protests died on her lips when she saw that the man standing behind me was a lord. She tried to smile brightly but her blue eyes were clouded by loss-unusual in an elf. I knew her pain, her husband, the man who had given her four children had recently been killed on a hunt. Bored by the perpetual venison, he had tried to slay a boar and had given up his life. A shift of the wind, so innocent, so deadly, had betrayed his scent to the beast.

I tried giving my father's knife back to my mother. Renouncing my heritage was difficult, but no elf woman wanted an effeminate son. In my camp's culture, artistry was considered an inappropriate occupation for me. Hunting was one of the only values we had. I assumed my desire to share my ideas would eclipse my talent in the hunt and that my brother, Raga, would hunt for my family. That he would wear the mantle of the eldest son. Surprisingly, she clasped my hand gently around the knife's hilt. "You will always be welcome back home."

Wishing to fall into her arms, I debated whether showing my mother affection would shame my new master. I looked to him for guidance, but he had backed away from us and was staring into the forest. He was tactfully giving us privacy, and I was overwhelmingly grateful. Crying a little, and feeling ashamed at my tears I sought solace from my mother. "I am sorry that I will be unable to hunt for you."

"Nonsense, I am exceedingly proud of you. Your father would have been too, he always wished that I could use my talents freely, I doubt that he would have tried restricting yours."

I had thought that my mother's magic was concentrated in textiles. Certainly the close she wove were the warmest of any in my camp. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Scooping up a pile of loose wool and herbs, my mother swiveled back to face me. A beautiful blue thread emerged from her cupped hand and coiled itself into a skein by her feet. "This string is the color of the song of new hope," she explained. "Funny, I had expected it to be yellow."

"How did you do that?"

"Remember that the camp I was originally from was closer to the human villages. Once I saw a picnicking woman in a yellow and blue striped dress. The uncommon beauty in her outfit shrouded the plainness of her face, and it struck a chord in my heart. I practiced it in secret, seeing if I could weave in color." The blue yarn was knitting itself into a square now, with occasional encouragement from my mother.

"You managed to hide this talent?"

"Easily. When I was tested, they only noticed an affinity for fabric. They didn't realize that I also was gifted in creativity. Your eagle eyes were a little harder to hide things from. Nonetheless, you didn't see that your father wore a lavender undershirt beneath his tunic. He was buried in it, in the color of devoted love."

"Father was normal though." I was grasping for reason. I had expected leaving would bring new experiences but I hadn't thought that everything I knew of home would be uprooted. I felt like a seed blowing in the wind.

"Yes, your father had a normal talent. But it was his acceptance of the unusual that set him apart as a man. Raga and Sinda have normal magical talents too, even if they are weaker than average. It is little Lim who appears to have received the strength that they lack." My mother cocked her head at the bushes where a songbird was stretching into a little girl.

I had always known that my youngest sister's talent was unusual. She had the power to transform things at will, and had been cultivating it since she had been old enough to read the spell books. Our Camp Lord had taken a liking to her, and was tutoring her personally as well. I never thought that she could apply her talent to herself though.

"When you come back, please bring me a flower from the King's Camp." She asked. "I'm starting a collection." I could hardly deny my favorite sister so I gave her an embrace in the meantime.

The storyteller began to pace, muttering under his breath. "I understand that you must go." My mother said, and she handed me a newly completed cloak. In the time we had been talking she had completely woven the blue fabric into a lining, and stitched it inside the standard brown wool for winter wear. "Stay safe in your journeys Zym." I hugged her again, mussed Lim's hair, and I was on my way.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time we reached the first village, I was thoroughly homesick. I missed knowing where I'd lay my head every morning, I missed playing knucklebones with the other boys, I missed my family especially. My heart hurt when I thought of them. I hadn't thought of them much in the beginning, I was captivated with the life of a wayfarer. My days had a new routine, a better routine I thought. The storyteller and I would break camp at twilight and then we would walk. Sometimes he would point out landmarks for me, the unspoken truth was that eventually I'd have to make my way on my own. The thought thrilled me at first, causing me to quiver with excitement before the sun even set. Now however, my enthusiasm was dampened with days of walking on low rations.

The storyteller never taught me how to create a story, or anything at all. Some days, while we shared our morning meal, he would tersely explain an event that had happened in his life. Usually these revelations were unformed and informal in the telling; often they were accompanied with a grudging tone. He never asked that I comment on them or reciprocate with information of my own. He certainly never drilled me on lessons I'd learned, or asked me to recite like the teacher at home. Instead he ignored me whenever I spoke unnecessarily. He would briefly answer questions if he found them important, but usually he left them reverberate on the air and then drift away. Compared to the bustling nature of my camp, I found the silence unnerving and definitely uncomfortable.

Arriving at the new camp, we were greeted by the Lord. The storyteller flourished his cloak and initiated the conversation. "Lord Athar, I seek a place to pitch my tent and that of my apprentice. WE would ask for a few days leave at your camp and seats around your cook pot."

"Your presence here is accepted with great excitement." The lord responded. "I only ask that in return, you spin my camp a tale or two."

Their conversation sounded ritualized to me, so I tried to memorize it. Luckily it was a short talk. They sealed their deal with a handshake, then the Camp Lord led us to an area reserved for travelers. It was a custom as old as the goblin menace that elf camps all had sanctuary for travelers. "Lord Athar thank you for your hospitality. We would delight in sharing our skills with your people. In fact, it will be my apprentice who will offer the entertainment tomorrow night." I sincerely hoped that I imagined Lord Athar's previously open face suddenly turning icy.

He didn't barter words with us much longer, leaving swiftly to let us set up our tents. I waited for an explanation impatiently, but refused to ask for one knowing that it would be considered unnecessary and impertinent. Eventually, and only after he had meticulously arranged his possessions, the storyteller gave me one. "You have learned to listen, tomorrow evening we will see whether you have also learned to speak."

I was unable to restrain my complaints. "That isn't fair. What am I supposed to talk about? I have nothing prepared."

"Even better, I look forward to hearing your tale once you've decided on it."

I retired to my tent and wracked my brain for an idea, any idea. I kept settling on the feeling of betrayal, it was terribly unfair to only give me a night of preparation with no practice so to speak of. I had never actually spoken for a crowd before, only occasionally were students in my camp required to give recitations. Every time one of these occurred, I sweated and shook and was never called upon because I was so worked up. I would have fretted all day, but the sun interrupted me, causing my eyelids to shut against my will. Falling into an uneasy sleep, I resented the lost time but greeted the oblivion.

The evening meal was a rushed affair for me, I was too nervous to keep food down anyway. Whispers flooded the camp that a travelling man had arrived to tell stories, and the elves looked around with excitement. When the men left for the hunt, the women and children surrounded me. The Lord had stayed behind to watch, glaring from the back row, his height unobscured by the others. Equally frightening was the stony face of my master who was watching me impatiently. Not knowing where to begin, I introduced myself.

"My name is Zym, and I'm from the Shot Arrow Star Camp. I am excited to be here and share my very first story with you." I cringed at the awkward phrasing but had to continue. Fingering my cloak surreptitiously so the lining didn't show, I announced my story.

"The Ant that Entered the Camp Border." I don't know whether I expected applause, but the shifting looks the audience was exchanging were hardly encouraging. "Once upon a time, there was an ant. She was a worker ant, in charge of feeding her people. Only one of a multitude, she knew that her mundane tasks were necessary to sustain life, but she wanted more for herself than they offered.

"Every day she climbed to the top of the same hillside and scrounged for food. Her path usually was devoid of good things, but occasionally she could find a dead caterpillar or the like. One day, she saw an elf on the hilltop and watched as he dropped a piece of bread. Desiring greatness, she decided to bring it to her queen as a prize. She would do this alone.

"To reach the bread, she would have to travel further from the anthill than she'd ever gone before. She was prepared to do so. She marched up the hill single-mindedly, and ran into a wall. She looked around and saw nothing, and so she tried again. Again she was blocked. And every attempt after resulted in her slamming her body against the invisible barrier.

"Using her feelers to reach higher, she noticed that the blockade rose higher than her head. Trying to solve the conundrum, she flexed her feet, feeling the sticky pads move, and began to climb. Normally ants are expert climbers, but this ant was climbing through the air. She made the mistake of looking down and saw nothing preventing her from falling. There was no stem to support her, she was walking on magic. Fearfully she stopped walking and remained in midair.

"She attracted the attention of an elf child who was interested in the hovering ant. A seemingly huge finger was extended and the ant clung to it like a lifeline until the elf girl put her down near the bread. The aunt escaped unscathed after enduring a few pokes. A grounded ant is less interesting than a floating one.

"The ant wanted nothing more than to bring the bread piece home, yet it was too big to lift herself. She needed her people. Unable to move the entirety, she decided to bring home a sample as large as she could carry to entice her coworkers to aid her. However the invisible barrier kept her in the elf camp. She died fat and alone. The end."

The audience stared silently at me for a moment, stunned that the story was finished. Then they rose and left their seats. Only the Camp Lord and the storyteller remained. "I am afraid that your story was not worth the stew," said the Lord cordially. "You will have to leave by morning."

The storyteller said nothing. He led me back to my camp, and began packing his things in silence, I packed mine alongside him. "I will have words for you on the road."


	4. Chapter 4

Silence in the elf King's forest was uncommon. We are never truly at ease in stillness, so why would we have designed our world to include it? As the storyteller and I walked, we should have heard trilling songbirds and the sound of grazing deer-and sheep! Instead all I could hear was the muffled crunching of my own footsteps in the leaf litter. I was certain the storyteller had planned this, and that he was waiting for me to crack. I thought I could feel his eyes singeing my hair, but every time I snuck a look, he was facing forward. His concentration was strong; I would almost see the magic flowing from his fingertips, muting my world.

I thought about his earlier statement, so cryptic that it was still haunting me, as the silence stretched on. "You have learned to listen, now you must learn to speak." Perhaps he wanted me to question him, to learn from my mistake through admittance. On the other hand, I had no desire to face a barrage of criticism. I had learned at a young age that I was sensitive, even for an elf. The departure of the audience had spoken volume. More had been expressed by that single mass action than the storyteller could teach me in days, assuming he deigned to speak at all.

"Controlling the whole forest is impressive magic," I offered lightly.

My companion twitched at my overloud voice. "Surely you realize that my arcane talent, such as it is, lies in illusion and oration?"

"So you're casting illusion on me?"

"Certainly not. If you're referring to the silence, look no further than the metaphorical storm cloud that you've summoned over your head."

"What?"

"By dwelling on your mistakes, you are casting negative energy on your surroundings. Elves aren't meant to reflect somberly, leave the humans to their misery!" He leaned closer and confided in me, "it frightens the birds."

I understood why he was a master storyteller, and resented him for his ease in communication. Confidence was not something I ever expected to have. "Easy for you to say," I sighed. "You didn't just make a fool of yourself in front of an entire camp."

"Not an entire camp, just the women and the children." Knowing the art of subtle mockery that elves took great pleasure in, I wasn't relieved in the slightest. By sunrise the entire camp would know my name. "Are you worried about your reputation?" He asked.

"Yes." Weren't learned men supposed to be empathetic? I had projected wisdom on this man. But, if he couldn't fulfill my expectations couldn't he just leave me alone? If elves aged like humans, the storyteller would have silvered hair, why did he think he could joke with a young boy. Not just a boy, a commoner.

"Good." He said. "Then you will never again forget the first rule of storytelling." My glare should have told him to cease all shenanigans. "Don't you flare your nostrils at me boy, I'm being serious. Our premier rule: never reveal your identity, is something that you can only learn from experiencing shame first hand. But if your audience didn't know who you were, they would never be able to link your failure to your family or self."

"Is that actually a rule?" I was skeptical. Among the hunters, boasting was a common leisure activity. Which man killed the wiliest buck was always a topic of debate. Men took pride in their accomplishments, who could possibly exist only in secrecy?

"Of course it is. Do you know my name?"

I thought it over, trying to recall whether he had been introduced by our Camp Lord on his arrival. Undoubtedly he had never explicitly named himself. "I couldn't tell you sir, but I know that you're an aristocrat. Lower level, probably a second son."

"Your observation skills are paramount, and they will be vital in your career. However, I could be the son of any minor noble in the King's Camp. Or any camp. Do not the sons of Camp Lords have black eyes?"

"Yes," I mumbled, chastened. "Now will you teach me so that I will not have to repeat this lesson?"

"Humility is preferred in the young, but I chose you as an apprentice and must follow through with the obligation. The second rule, which is the most indefinite, is to know your audience. This comes with age." He looked down on me pointedly, and I nearly shriveled under the perceived disapproval. "You, when meeting Lord Athar, were taken in by his charm. But you didn't know that his camp is conservative in nature, that he is successful by keeping the traditions. And so you shared an original piece, something which would have had a better reception nearer the capitol where innovation flourishes."

"How can I learn this lesson?"

"Experience helps. There will be many mistakes before you can be a true master." He said. "Know that I liked your ant story. It needs polishing of course. The writing is rough, and your performance caused you to look like a country lout." The storyteller did not mince words. "It was creative though, I appreciated your efforts. I look forward to your next attempts."

"You mean that you'll let me speak again?"

"Let you?" The storyteller arched an eyebrow. "Zym, I will force you to."


	5. Chapter 5

A great cedar arched over our second stop. The Archer's Right Hand Star Camp was larger than any I'd ever visited, yet it still held all the traditional activities. Hunters were banded rather than partnered, and the stew pot would have fit me inside it, but I could still recognize elvish life. As we entered, activity paused as heads turned towards us. But it resumed nearly as quickly as it stopped. A blond man came to us as emissary and he led us to a platform at the tree's base.

Seated at a writing desk, the Camp Lord Zirican glanced up to appraise us. Apparently we passed, because he gave us a small smile. It was both the weakest and most commanding I'd ever seen, and it had the effect of reducing me to the size of a cockroach. I wanted to cower behind the storyteller, but I forced myself to stand strong. My blue eyes held his black ones until I, distracted rather than submissive, looked away. Behind Lord Zirican's desk there was a rope dangling from a thick bough, and hanging from that rope was a girl. Like a spider on a thread, she twirled through the air fearlessly. The storyteller noticed me staring before the Camp Lord could and, thanking him for his hospitality, he ushered me away.

"Like last time, you will be presenting tomorrow evening. And this time, I will give you some valuable information. Lord Zirican is vain, both of his looks and his power. His line stems from the second son of the third First Father which, although prestigious, is something he'd like to improve. He hopes to improve the family status, and thus guards his daughter jealously. Her marriage will most likely be arranged in the spring."

"Why is his daughter's marriage important to the success of my story?"

"Lady Moerin is young and impressionable. She's also rather wild. I would recommend telling a tale that the Lord would find appropriate for her."

"Like what?"

"I trust that your creative instincts would allow you choose something fitting." The storyteller said. "We're here earlier in the night than usual, I would recommend that you explore a little, get to know the camp. You can use any information you collect when you're crafting a tale." He left to join a swirl of dancers.

I stared after him momentarily, unsure of what to do. Dancing was a common elvish past time, but I usually felt like I had three left feet. Settling on taking a walk to explore the perimeter, my mind was changed when a figure dropped from the tree. Spinning on her rope, Lady Moerin dropped to my eye level. Or to where it would have been if I hadn't fallen over from shock. As I lay on the forest floor and attempted to catch my breath she just laughed.

"You should have seen your face!" She coiled the rope around her feet and used her suddenly freed hands to applaud. "Also, your cloak is blue."

I clutched it around me; it had fallen open when I fell. "I would prefer if you never shared that information with anyone."

"But it's so cool!" She said. "Did you get the fabric from a human settlement?"

"No," I was enticed to break my mother's secret. "My mother can weave in color."

"Really?" Her black eyes were as wide as the night sky, and they sparkled just as much. "Do you suppose she could make me something? I've always liked the color of wood violets…"

"Elves wear green in spring and brown in the winter." I informed her, as if she didn't know. "As a story teller I'm allowed to be eccentric."

"I want to be an acrobat." She said. "Being an elf is so boring; the last storyteller who came through told a story that mentioned a human circus. I fell in love with the idea, it was a pity my father had him exiled."

"A storyteller talked about humans to your camp?" My mind was whirring with untold stories, if only I could learn more about the humans.

"No," she admitted. "I spied on a messenger. He said that some elf girl was taken by humans and made to work as an animal tamer. Anyway, it was nice talking to you." She pulled herself back into the canopy and left me to my thoughts. If a story about humans could enthrall a young girl, could it also capture the heart of the King's Camp? I was relieved that her storyteller was a mere reporter, if my idea had been stolen, I wouldn't be able to survive on my own. I wanted a unique niche, one that was unspoiled by competition.

As I watched the camp assembling around me, I paid special attention to Lady Moerin. She had been completely disentangled; probably her father had removed her ropes forcibly. He didn't seem to appreciate her wilder side. Indeed the Camp Lord hovered by his daughter's side watching her warily. She seemed unconcerned, flopping into the dried grasses and was contentedly braiding them into more ropes. Older than Lim Moerin was, but my little sister would have been standing obediently at attention. I could only assume that it was the difference in being brought up a noble. Moerin was undoubtedly treated as if she were a lame doe.

I had considered telling a traditional tale after my failure at the last camp. Before I fell asleep, I had practiced the "Story of Lim and Marak Blackwing." It had always been a favorite at home, so I figured that it would be popular here as well. Now I could recite word for word. Preparing to address the crowd, I opened my mouth and snapped it shut, repeating another man's story just felt wrong. I could feel my own words welling up. They would be raw and unpolished, but they would be my own. My magic seemed to sigh with contentment as I announced my piece: "The Beloved King's Wife".

"Once upon a time," I began, "there was an elf who loved his daughter more than anything in the world." I paused to check the reception. Lord Zirican treated me with a half smile, one eye on me and the other on his daughter. The storyteller, whose reaction mattered most, was inscrutable as always. However I'd heard his slight gasp when I derailed from the plan I detailed to him that morning. I nodded to him reassuringly trying to express that the reception couldn't be worse than the ant story's.

"Because he loved her, when she reached adolescence, he betrothed her to the best hunter in their camp. The elf was pleased because his daughter would be provided for; the hunter was pleased because his future wife was beautiful and full of vitality. Although the daughter, Syra, was not a noble, she was still striking looking. Her curls were washed out, nearly white, and her blue eyes were always bright with enthusiasm. Neither man ever questioned how Syra felt though.

"Unfortunately in their haste for betrothal, they had never noticed that Syra had fallen in love-a childish pure love- with her best friend. He was destined to be a minstrel, and they already knew that he would be cross-fostered at 17. However Syra and Olin believed that their love could overcome the obstacle of distance, they believed that they were destined for each other. The only obstacle was Olin's reserve. He would never address her father for fear of rejection and ridicule. Despite Syra's encouragement, Olin never was brave enough to speak.

"When the elf told his daughter that she was betrothed, he took her tears for joy. No more was said on the matter, because in terms of marriage, the father's word is final. Three years later, Olin turned 17 and departed their camp. In secret, Syra had planned an escape. She would follow her beloved to his new home, but she couldn't decide whether she could actually follow through with it. Torn between duty and love, she went to the river and reached for a stone. She had preselected that black would stay and white would leave.

"She pulled a black stone and disgustedly cast it back into the river. Indecision lifted, she decided to follow her heart." I tapered off mysteriously and listened to the shifting of the audience. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lord Zirican grip Moerin's shoulders and steer her away. I had blown my story before even completing it. Panicked, I jumped back into it, hoping that the Lord was still in earshot.

"Syra packed her cloak with food and a few meager possessions and prepared for her flight. She slipped through the border without problems, and was walking down the path when a rabble of goblins appeared. They grabbed the disobedient girl and took her underground. She was bred to the barbarian King, and never saw the moon again." I really hoped the Lord heard the ending, I meant it as a moral. The elves didn't depart immediately, but I received no applause either. Dejected again, I returned to my tent in preparation to leave. Moerin interrupted me when she flipped from the canopy in front of me. To my credit, I didn't fall.

"Your ending sucked, I'm still joining the circus."


	6. Chapter 6

Instead of confronting her, I ran from the camp. Traditionally elven males are talented hunters and woodsmen. I was no exception, I was as fleet as any man, artisan or not. And since I was not slowing to cover my tracks, I crested a hill far from the camp before a stitch in my side made me slow to a halt. Spreading my cloak on the grass, I observed my surroundings. This hill was surrounded by a single ring of oaks, and that was the only thing separating it from the legendary truth circle. I had never seen the fabled place myself, but I had studied maps.

The hilltop seemed safe, not in a magically protected way, but I hadn't experienced solitude since I left my camp. Plenty of silence, but it wasn't the peaceful variety. So I stretched among the lilies and stared at the stars. My hands drew the constellations causing each to flash with color. I thought back to my initial meeting with the storyteller, when images danced around him as he shared his talent. "I come from a family with unusual magical talent." I said aloud and looked at the swath of blue that separated me from the earth. "Why shouldn't mine be equally unusual?"

Casting about my brain for an image, I settled on Moerin. I ran my nimble fingers through some loose soil and imagined her. I pictured her in a lavender elf dress; I pictured her raven hair, her star-strewn eyes. I imaged green vines woven around her wrists and ankles, and before my eyes, my imaginings came to life. I watched my illusionary girl tumble between the branches fearlessly, and saw her joined by another little girl. The real Moerin, dressed in brown. Panicking, I brushed my hand through my drawing and caused the imagined Moerin to fade away.

Briefly, I wondered whether my illusions were linked explicitly to the drawings. But Moerin interrupted me. "I followed you."

"Go away." I was beyond the point of caring whether I offending this particular lord's daughter. I had already angered her father, and we would be leaving the camp- likely as soon as I returned to pack.

"You cannot possibly think that running away from your mistakes will make them go away." She plopped herself down near my feet and started crafting a chain out of lilies.

"That's the life of a travelling storyteller." I said wearily. "Offend your audience, and you don't have a place to rest your head."

"You aren't a storyteller, you are an apprentice. You are supposed to make mistakes, take risks, and anger lords, whatever. Your master is clearing things up with my father, and pretty soon you'll be far away and the incident will be forgotten. It's not like you're a goblin raider, you're just a boy who told a story." The bluntness of a twelve year old who still believed that the world was in her pocket was refreshing.

"And what do you know? You're an aspiring acrobat with no place in our world." Childishly, I tried to shake her beliefs.

"I know that I don't have a place here, and I don't plan on staying long. I want to come with you." Her dark eyes were earnest, and I didn't think I'd ever be able to capture that expression in an illusory Moerin.

"Your duty is to your camp, and if I kidnapped you, I would be as bad as any goblin."

"I'm not spoken for yet. You could just ask my father…"

"Your father hates me, and I barely know you." I protested.

"It's like in your story. What if, because you didn't propose, I get captured by goblins trying to escape to a human village? And I know you like me, you made an image of me and you dressed her in purple!"

Apparently Moerin misunderstood the moral of my story. Instead of being reminded of a woman's place, she had taken it as me reprimanding young men for their cowardice. I cringed, her father would kill me. I decided not to explain my meaning to her; I sketched a flower on the ground. It was only to be a common lily, but it was the color of lavender- the color of undying love. Awash with homesickness, I handed it to her. "No matter what else I do there, I have to return to your camp for my possessions. Come."

Wonder was in her eyes as she arranged the flower in her hair and I was glad. Even if I alienated her entire camp, I had the friendship of this child. Sure, she claimed to want marriage with me, but I knew that Moerin would prefer her freedom. She slipped her hand in mine and skipped through the forest as we returned back, and I realized that I hadn't travelled as far as I thought. Did I want this child-bride? No. Would I be able to provide for her on my travels? No. Even if we were betrothed, she would stay in her father's camp. She was just too naïve to understand that.

As soon as she stepped through the camp spell, she sprang away from me like a rabbit and raced to find her friends. I sat under a tree and watched them dancing giddily. Did she tell them she wanted to be fed from a storyteller's hands? Excitedly she showed off her flower and I realized what I'd done. I'd created the perfect illusion-something with physical form.

"That's an odd thing Moerin has." The storyteller had noticed her new ornament as well.

"She wants me to hunt for her." His eyes were inscrutable as always as he looked from me to the laughing child. "She misinterpreted my story."

"She's an odd child, but so are you. Did you make that flower in the same way you illustrated my story?"

"Yes, I imagined it and roughly sketched it in the ground." I didn't tell him that I'd made a perfect likeness of Moerin in the same way.

"It's incredibly detailed." And I smiled at his praise. "I would guess that you use the sketch as a focus for your magic, but it's what's in your head that counts. I've noticed that you have a mind for the miniscule. While we travel, you should work with your magic, attempt to make illusions without crudities."

"Thank you. What should I do about Moerin?"

He shook his head. "I do not presume to be a counselor in matters of the heart or in politics."


	7. Chapter 7

I didn't pace- that was not the elvish way. Instead, I retreated under a willow tree to think in peace. Truthfully, common elves were more likely to think about amusement than serious matter- leave that for the lords- but I was willing to try. Absentmindedly, I whittled to occupy part of my brain, and used the rest to ponder my proposal. After a short time, I decided to cut my losses. I left the sanctuary of the bows and stealthily returned to my master. "I'm ready to go." I whispered the pack spell he'd taught me, and my possessions neatly arranged myself into my sack.

The storyteller did not question me as we left, but I questioned him. "Are we headed towards the King's Camp?" I asked as we veered in an unexpected direction.

"You aren't ready for the King's Camp." He replied candidly. "We're taking an indirect route to Archer's Eye Star Camp, where you will perform again." My master offered no other tips and left me to stare around at the lengthening shadows. As the world lost its color to a nebulous grey fog, we pulled off trail and made camp. I crawled onto my pallet, which conveniently had expanded from its travel size to provide maximum comfort, and closed my eyes. The night's events had exhausted me, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep until the sun senesced.

Unfortunately, the storyteller had other plans. "You seem rather composed…" he initiated.

I growled and pulled my cloak's hood over my eyes. The weak dawn sunlight was already causing me to see spots. "Meaning?"

"You didn't flee the camp, and you weren't tearful at departure. Are congratulations in order?"

I didn't want to talk about Moerin, I wanted to sleep. And ignore the entire situation. "I wouldn't have been able to hunt for her, words don't fill empty stomachs."

A slight rustle of fabric indicated that the storyteller nodded. "It's a shame; Lady Moerin is a lovely girl."

Closing my eyes entirely, I ignored his suggestion. "You don't have a wife to share your travels. Why would I want one?"

It wasn't the proper time for a story, but he seemed inclined to share anyway. "When I was a little older than you, my heart was ensnared by a beautiful maiden. With eyes as dark as a still winter pool and hair that curled like a fiddlehead, Delai was our camp's enchantress. One midnight, she pulled me into the dance, and I never let her go. When I began my apprenticeship, she begged to go with me, and her father gave her permission.

Many nights, I would leave the King's Camp with my own master for inspiration in the forest, and she would stay behind. The camp offered her many distractions, but she most loved to wait for me and the sun at the eastern border. One particular day, I arrived to see blood in the snow and signs of a magical fight. Delai was gone, and irregular tracks were everywhere. She had been taken by goblins merely weeks before our marriage moon." The elf man tapered off, but I could hear him say softly, "I wish she were still with me."

Soft snores indicated that he wished to be left alone. And so I lay awake in the brightness wondering if his story was true. It was so similar to the story I had told, uncannily so. Did listening to me hurt my master or did he appreciate it. Was there a moral to the story he told? Eventually I sank into an uneasy sleep, but the day birds had been long singing by that time.

We reached the next camp in chaos. Several nights had passed since my master shared his story, but I hadn't mustered the courage to ask about its verity. He hadn't pried into my affairs either, and our journey had been uneventful. But flashes of light between tall pines indicated that Archer's Eye Star Camp was anything but peaceful. On the border of the goblin kingdom and the forest, this camp was renowned for its militaristic approach to life, but tonight there was no organized tramp of drilling feet and there was no marital music piping. We slowed to approach the camp, and I worriedly glanced at my master. A glint in his eye warned me to be on my best behavior, and on guard.

The camp border stopped our entry, but we could see beyond it. Many spell casters were vigorously gesturing around and muttering spells. I couldn't tell what they were doing, but was effectively intimidated by their actions. We were stopped by a handsome blond elf who greeted us with a scowl. "Names?"

It was my master's turn to scowl. "Revealing my identity would harm my professional life. I am a storyteller and the boy is my apprentice. We are travelling and would like to exchange a tale for some stew and a day's rest if possible."

The guard looked unconvinced, but after looking us over decided that my lordly master was not a threat to camp security. He led us through the border but gestured us to wait. I used my powers of observation to deduce that the elf men were strengthening the camp spell, and that the women were absent. "There's been an attack?" I asked my master.

He too was looking around. "Yes, I think. But I don't think the raid happened here."

A dangerous looking lord with flinty eyes came behind us. Red rings around them indicated that he'd had several sleepless days. "I've been informed that you are storytellers?" He looked us over and I wrapped my cloak more tightly around me.

"Yes, we're on our way to the King's Camp." My master was less intimidated than I. "What happened?"

The lord sank onto a rock by our sides and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "A goblin raid nearby, the runners came two mornings ago. Our camp spells haven't been updated in years; I haven't had a moment's rest." Normally elf men are more aloof, but tragedy brings us closer. My master's noble appearance also makes him a better confidant than a commoner's look would. "I'm sorry, I forgot my formalities. My name is Heron, I'm the lord of this camp."

"No offense taken. If I may ask, where were the runners from?"

"Archer's Right Hand Star Camp. Apparently three unwed children went walking late in the night and only one returned for the morning meal. I can't allow such a tragedy to occur here. So close to the border, we should be better prepared but…"

I didn't hear the rest of his thought vocalize. The world blurred and a soft buzzing filled my ears. Moerin. The lord's daughter was adventurous and would leave the boundary. She thought herself invincible. She loved the outside world, loved trees and dancing and acrobatics, had she been taken? I politely made my excuses and ran.


End file.
